


To The Lengths They'll Go

by lacat123



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 09, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet Ending, Blood, Bringing That Tag Back, But Heavy On The Bitter, Castiel (Supernatural)-centric, Dark, Dubious Consent, Fever, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Homeless Castiel, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt No Comfort, Like Really Heavy On The Bitter, Money, No Major Character Death, Nothing explicit, Past Tense, Prostitute Castiel (Supernatural), Stop Hurting Cas 2k19, Tattooed Castiel (Supernatural), Tattoos, Theft, Unsafe Tattooing Conditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-09 21:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18925363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacat123/pseuds/lacat123
Summary: He’d thought he’d known what being human was like: surrounded by warmth and happiness and love and family. That was what the Winchesters had shown him. But it turns out that’s not all there is, and now he’s stuck on the streets, homeless, without a penny to his name. And with hostile angels around every corner.There were lengths he never thought he'd go to, things he never thought he’d do, in order to get a tattoo.





	To The Lengths They'll Go

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! Welcome to this fun (not) little story that makes season nine slightly more believable. Aka, lots of Cas!whump. Because who doesn't like Hurt Cas?
> 
> Warnings are in end notes.

Being human was difficult. Much more difficult than Sam or Dean or any of the others he knew would make him believe. There was eating, sleeping, drinking, relieving waste, which was much worse when he was the one doing it, not just observing. And the more societal issues. Apparently, he was a 'weirdo'. Which made people avoid him. 

Dean kicked him out. He'd long come to terms with that. He didn't blame the hunter. Castiel wasn't exactly a normal person, nor would be much help on hunts. Dean even went so far as to give him a hundred dollars, no light matter he'd learned. It'd take him months and many immoral acts to get the hundred and fifty-five and sixty cents he has now. Dean must've cared deeply. 

So he'd gone back out onto the streets. Slept on more dirty sidewalks and accepted more handouts from soup kitchens. He saw death, in the fellow homeless that succumbed to the cold or starvation. He'd tried to help them, but he'd either been feebly pushed away or a few minutes too late. Then they'd breathed their last breath across his skin, warm against the rest of the cold. That'd happened at least three times, and each one was somehow worse. He also saw, and felt, sickness. Of the body, of the mind. Everything seemed harsh out here. 

It's been four months, since Dean threw him out. The money hadn't lasted long. It wasn't like he could sleep at a homeless shelter, without ID or any record of existing, beyond being the assumed-kidnapped-and-dead Jimmy Novak. It'd taken him a month before he'd really figured out how to survive with no knowledge and no money, and by then it'd been gone anyway. One meal a day through the soup kitchen, sleeping on the street with a stolen blanket for comfort. He worked it out. 

The problem had surfaced quickly. An angel found him within a few days of going on his own. Taken their blade and threatened any humans they could find for his location. Over ten had died. He would have given his own life many times over to save them. Gone through re-education again and again to spare even one of their lives. That might even be better than the way he was living now. 

He needed to move constantly, to avoid the police and others who would force him off the streets, so a sigil carved into a building wasn't enough. Then he thought of Dean again, the anti-possession tattoo that both he and Sam had. He'd started saving that night. 

There was the occasional penny, quarter, on the ground. He shoved them deep into his jacket he'd taken from a laundromat, and counted them safely at night. After a week he had only two dollars and a few cents more, and he realized that to get his goal he'd need to take more drastic measures. But he couldn't. He'd fought for free will, for the right to choose. He wasn't going to use that right for sin. 

Then the soup kitchen closed. Something about public health. With it went his only source of food and warmth and comfort. The first week was full of pain, yet the second was worse, absolute torture. But then the man had come, the one who called himself John. 

There was one thing he'd always known about humans: they were master manipulators. Told little and extravagant lies to get what they wanted. Cheated and stole anything else. Were able to survive in any situation. Seemed John was the master of everything human, then. 

He wasn't as ignorant as Sam and Dean seemed to think he was. While he may not understand the total sphere of social interaction, it wasn't for lack of base knowledge about it, just practice. So when John offered him twenty dollars to buy food across the street, but told him what he'd have to do, he didn't go in blindly. He wasn't taken advantage of. 

The ground was always dirty, covered in grime and sewage and broken syringes. Drugs and sex and so much else. But, sinking to his knees, he felt a different kind of silt covering his skin. One of being used, pervaded. Those minutes were not marked by pain, just pure humiliation. A sharp spike of shame. He was an angel, reduced to being a prostitute in order to fulfill his own basic human needs. Food, safety. So much more fallen than any of his brothers. 

When it was over, and a crumbled bill was thrown into his face and smeared with liquid, he threw up onto the sidewalk. Wiped his mouth and ran to the store. Hunger rumbled through his very bones, but he bought a toothbrush and paste first. Carefully washed out his mouth, and the musky taste along with it. Tried to ignore his reflection, hair mussed and mouth red. Only then did he allow himself to eat, biting into a sandwich and savoring every bite. 

Weeks where the soup kitchen was closed put his plan on hold. He used every dollar he got from his street corner on food and water. Ignored swollen lips and rough throats. Blood that stained his clothes again and again, from those that were a bit rougher with their treatment. He didn’t stop, relying too much on those indecent acts to even have the choice. Soon, though, the kitchen opened again, and he had food. He got his ability to choose back. Stopped all of the men. 

He'd managed to escape detection recently, since he'd been staying in one place. The local law enforcement turned a blind eye to this part, as long as they got something in return. Which was generally him on his knees, forehead leaning against their cool belt with a gun much too close to his head for comfort. He drew a sigil on a piece of cardboard, to keep out the angels. But rain that night washed it away enough to ruin its power, and they attacked again. This time, no one was killed except the angel. Another death on his hands. But what she said, about him, was more than he could bear. That was the first time he thought about ending his own life. 

But he forged on, ignoring those thoughts and instead focusing on survival. As well as prostituting paid, he wasn't sure he could bear to 'service' one more person in some back alley. Not with any sense of hope and love and anything _good _left in his soul. But still, he needed money.__

__The man had been walking along his alley. With barely a breath of trepidation, he wrapped an arm around his neck, dirty broken glass held to his throat. He tried to tell himself that this was to save more humans from dying, maybe even this man here. But that wasn't an easy thing to say when he took that man's wallet, while he pleaded desperately for his life._ _

__With a last word of warning, he let the man go, watching as he ran frantically away. He dropped the shard like it was acidic, before counting the money inside the leather folds. Seventy-two dollars, sixty cents. Much more than he could make on his knees, but still a bit off. Still needed at least a hundred seventy five more to get a tattoo with the complexity he needed. And that wasn't even at a parlor, but from a fellow homeless with a dirty needle._ _

__So he did it again. Grabbed someone strolling down his side-street, pushed something sharp against their neck, this time a needle he was pretty sure was relatively clean, and told him to give away all his money. But this one was more prepared._ _

__Cas was thin. He was weak. Living on the streets, barely getting enough food to not starve, not fighting often. It'd all taken a toll on his body, no longer in as good of shape as it had been. This man was smaller than him, but stronger. Pushed him off and threw the syringe to the ground, before grabbing a gun from his jacket pocket._ _

__There was a moment of shock, disbelief that made cold flow through his veins. Before the concussive sound, and pain. Agony that spread through his body. He couldn't pinpoint the exact spot, just overwhelming, absolutely inundating amounts of pain. His vision swam and he sunk to the concrete, grasping desperately at his chest as he struggled to breathe._ _

__He laid there, consumed by his agony, for an immeasurable amount of time. Curled up into himself as he hung on to each gasp, pulling it in and forcing it to fill his rattling lungs. By whatever twisted form of luck his father seemed to have, the pain receded and was placed with a numbness that filled his bones._ _

__His collarbone was broken. He could feel shards grate against each other as he moved his shoulder. The bullet must've done that. Once he got the world to stop spinning, he stretched out and leaned against a building. Pressed a shaking hand to his clavicle, stared at the shining blood on his fingers, and retched. Slowly pulled his right arm close to his chest, until it was in a less strenuous position. He could actually breathe, like this, but the pain movement caused made the earth spin._ _

__What felt like hours later, he fell to his knees, pressing gauze to his shoulder. It cost a precious two dollars and ninety-five cents, but it was worth it to stave off bleeding and infection. He wrapped it around, keeping the makeshift bandage in place. Then used the rest to make a sling._ _

__The next days were filled blood, fever, and pain. Everything was foggy, but he was aware enough to know he was lying in the street. A position that felt much too vulnerable after what he'd been through, what he'd done, but it would take too much effort to move. Shadows twisted and morphed into angels and demons and men and so many more that would hurt him. Things, once the fever broke, he promised not to speak of again._ _

__A week later, he broke into a car. Smashed the window and reached in, wincing as shards broke into his skin and stayed there. Blood was still dried on from before; a little more wouldn't make a difference. There was cash in the glove compartment, which he counted quickly. Three hundred dollars. Judging by the other things in there, probably not made through legal means, but at this point he didn't care. Money meant safety._ _

__Once he saw the money, the 'tattooer' was more than willing. Castiel drew the series of Enochian letters he needed on a piece of cardboard, and watched the man take them in. Before smiling with missing teeth and nodding, agreeing. Pulled a needle he insisted was clean but the fallen angel very much doubted, dipped it in some ink that he said was from a real shop, but judging by the broken pen beside him was most definitely not. But he still undressed, carefully taking off shirt and jacket, before lying down on a musty blanket._ _

__The pain was not nearly as bad as being shot. More like scratching or dull burning against his skin. But it lasted so long, never ceasing, never letting up. He could only lay there, staring up into the murky sky and hoping this wasn't going to kill him._ _

__Hours and hours he spent. Feeling the single needle poke again and again, shoving ink deep into him. Soon, his shoulder burned and ached from putting pressure on it. It had been an immeasurable amount of time when the man said he was done. Cas looked down at his side, staring at the carefully laid out letters in his own holy language. It would protect him from detection, similar to the ones carved into Dean and Sam's ribs._ _

__After, he walked along his alley. Past the bloody stains where he'd lain, shot. Past the others where he'd scraped his knees before men. Past so many marks that showed his horrible, horrible life since falling. Stared at his ratty old blanket with a day-old sandwich laying beside it._ _

__Tiredness hit him in the chest, and he could only let out a low whimper as his knees finally, finally buckled. Crawled the last few steps to where he slept in the old coverlet, wrapped himself up tight in the brown fabric. Now that he was safe, now that he had a way to keep living, he thought of all he had lost._ _

__Sam. Dean. His righteousness. His grace, then his humanity, after. His dignity, followed quickly by his unblemished soul. Now he was simply a twisted thing, not human, not angel. As close to a monster as most would hunt._ _

__And he could only lay there, newly-inked skin burning as much as his eyes. And he let the tears fall, gently, gently. Stream down his face as he made broken little sobs that transformed into twisted laughs and screams. Considered simply praying to the angels so they'd grant him a quick death._ _

__Before giving into weariness, and drifting off to a fitful sleep._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:  
> Prostitution, which is the dub-con. However, it is not forced or explicit.  
> Very brief suicidal thoughts. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please kudo and comment if you enjoyed! It really makes my day!


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